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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26249746">Lucky 🐟 Catch</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/pentagonbuddy/pseuds/pentagonbuddy'>pentagonbuddy</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Blood and Injury, Canon Compliant Metodey Height, Comedy, Established Relationship, M/M, Mild Gore, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 02:48:42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,334</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26249746</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/pentagonbuddy/pseuds/pentagonbuddy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Linhardt and Metodey go fishing. Hilarity ensues.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Linhardt von Hevring/Metodey</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>2020 Ultra Rarepair Big Bang</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Lucky 🐟 Catch</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I wrote this for the <a href="https://twitter.com/ultrararepairb1">Ultra Rarepair Big Bang 2020</a>! (phew, that's a mouthful) There's art to go along with this, which <a href="https://drive.google.com/file/d/1JFyMTJ2_C5o3UkgLeP5DxwmCewCWecTg/view?usp=sharing">you can see here</a>. Somehow this ended up one of my most canon compliant fics. Thank you 7LittleNumbers for the beta read! </p><p>Metodey is menace to the local flora and fauna, but I didn't add the "harm to animals" tag because none are actually hurt...except for a fish. He's just a mean man who thinks mean things, please don't be like Metodey (this is general life advice)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Two bone dice stared at Metodey with a pair of snake eyes that announced his latest failure. His comrade next to him threw an arm around his shoulders with a smarmy grin on her face.</p><p>“Better luck next time,” she said. “How about one more round—double or nothing?”</p><p>Luck! As if it had anything to do with luck. These dice were clearly loaded—he should’ve brought his own pair. At least those were loaded in his favor. </p><p>Metodey twisted out of her grip. “I’ve got better things to do.”</p><p>Everyone crouched around the shield they’d been rolling on called him a coward on his way out, as if it were an insult to his good sense. This was a tactical retreat, a crucial survival skill. You win some, you lose some.</p><p>Metodey liked to think he won more often than not, though right now his aching coin purse disagreed. In moods like this, when he wanted to turn whatever he could find into an arrow-filled pincushion, he was much better off spending his time with Linhardt, whose placid nature and quiet voice had a way of soothing him. When Linhardt went on about Crests or whatever he fancied that day, sometimes flopped in bed while twirling his finger around Metodey’s hair, it always felt like winning.</p><p>It should have been simple enough to find Linhardt, since there were no libraries around and fewer places to nap, which meant he usually holed up in his tent until someone dragged him out. Yet when Metodey peeked into said tent—after announcing his presence and waiting a second or two—all he found were stacks of books and an empty bedroll.</p><p>The Bergliez boy probably knew where he was. In fact, he might’ve been the one to drag Linhardt out.</p><p>Now the Bergliez boy, he was easy to find anywhere. All Metodey had to do was tune his ears towards the loudest voice in camp, and on the off chance Caspar wasn’t hollering or whooping or shouting about something, his blue hair made him an obvious target. First Metodey heard, then saw him at the outskirts of their camp, where he wailed on a thick tree with an axe. Either training or chopping firewood. Maybe both.</p><p>“Hey,” he said, louder when Caspar failed to notice. “Little man!”</p><p>That got him to turn around. He leaned his axe against the tree and puffed his chest out. “You talking to me?”</p><p>Metodey stepped closer, his hand raised to his own forehead, then hovered his palm over Caspar’s head to measure the gap. “Seems like it.”</p><p>“Yeah, yeah.” Caspar swatted his hand away. “Buzz off—I’m busy.” </p><p>There weren’t any further comebacks or counterattacks. All Caspar did was roll his eyes, which did nothing for Metodey’s sour mood. It wasn’t any fun if he didn’t take the bait.</p><p>“Oh, it was only a joke,” Metodey said, putting on his best smile. “A little one.”</p><p>“What do you want? An asskicking?” Caspar cracked his knuckles. “'Cause you’re asking for one.”</p><p>That was better. Some of his own frustrations drained away and he had another barb at the ready—ah, best not to go too far. He might still be able to get a lead from Caspar. “No, no, I’m just—Have you seen Linhardt?”</p><p>“Like I’d tell you.”</p><p>He sat against the tree, next to the axe. “It’d get me out of your hair faster.”</p><p>Caspar glared down at Metodey. While he mulled it over, Metodey picked up one of the wood splinters lying around and flicked it at his shin—in return, Caspar kicked dirt at him. Fair enough.</p><p>“I mean, he had his pole and stuff,” Caspar said. “Probably went fishing.”</p><p>That made sense. Metodey <i>had</i> caught a glimpse of Linhardt earlier that day. He didn’t have any gear at the time, though he’d been wearing sandals, which seemed a poor choice of footwear for their rocky encampment.</p><p>Metodey brushed the dirt from his pants. “Where does he go for that?”</p><p>“Dude, we’re by an ocean.”</p><p>“Sure, but where—”</p><p>“The ocean!” Caspar gestured to the distant strip of water that was visible between the trees. “It’s not that hard to figure out.” He turned around to face Metodey. “What’s it matter to you, anyway?”</p><p>Metodey picked up another splinter, stabbing this one into the dirt. “Maybe I want to fish.”</p><p>“You wouldn’t last five minutes.”</p><p>“<i>Tch</i>, speak for yourself.”</p><p>“I am.” Caspar leaned against the pommel of his axe, looming overhead. “I can only stand it for like, ten.”</p><p>The shift in position made Metodey feel short. He climbed back to his feet, then brushed off any lingering dirt or splinters. “You’ve gone with him?”</p><p>“It gets real boring, real fast.”</p><p>“...So you <i>do</i> know where he fishes.”</p><p>“I might if you can beat me in a fight.” Caspar stepped away from his axe, fists raised as he bounced on his feet in a fighting stance. “C’mon, I’m all warmed up.”</p><p>Even one of his playful jabs was enough for Metodey’s arm to ache. It didn’t take long to weigh the odds, as he was unarmed and without so much as a drop of poison on hand, which meant they weren’t in his favor. He knew plenty of tricks—poking eyes or punching throats—but you weren’t supposed to do things like that with comrades. Maybe he could outsmart Caspar, use the tree to his advantage, or at least kick dirt at him, see how he liked it...No, Metodey had gambled enough for the day.</p><p>When Caspar went for another light punch, Metodey caught his fist. “I don’t need your help.”</p><p>He pressed forward with a bit more force, enough for Metodey to stumble, then pulled back. “You’re gonna regret it.”</p><p>What did he know? He didn’t even know where Linhardt was. Or maybe he did—either way it was a waste of time. Metodey left Caspar to his chopping, or training, or whatever it was, and slunk off into the trees on his own.</p><p>Tracking people was part of his job. He knew Linhardt was wearing sandals, which was more than enough to work with. All he had to do was find some worn path that led down to the beach, look for a few impressions…</p><p>It took longer than he cared to admit before he found either.</p><p>Of course he could find the ocean—it was an endless streak of pale blue, the horizon line broken only by the spires of stone outcrops along the beach. Linhardt could be right around the corner of those rocks, and while Metodey’s boots weren’t meant for this terrain, they were tall enough that he didn’t kick any sand in them. There was seaweed and driftwood and other junk to trip him up; he ignored it all until he made it past the first set of rocks he reached, only to find—</p><p>Nothing. Linhardt wasn’t there.</p><p>Metodey looked around with his hands on his hips. Rocks, gravel, sand, wood—ah, there was a wooden post. He jogged towards it, spotting more posts once he was closer, and these guided him to a pier. Linhardt was at the end of it—Metodey’s stomach did a little flip at the sight, not a bad one—kneeling by a bucket. Had he already caught something?</p><p>Come to think of it, there’d been a road that led out from their camp and probably ended at this pier, without any need to tramp through the trees and bushes and rocks...Ah, the important thing was that he’d found Linhardt.</p><p>“Linhardt!” By the time Metodey made it to the pier’s edge he was out of breath, and leaned over with his hands on his knees. He lifted his head, grinning. “<i>Finally</i>.”</p><p>Linhardt took some wriggling thing out of the bucket and speared it on a hook. His face was hidden under the wide brim of a sun hat. “Did something happen?”</p><p>“No, I—” It’d be embarrassing to sound like some clingy child. “Er, I heard you went fishing.” He straightened his posture and ran his fingers through his hair. “Got curious.” </p><p>“You’re not in some sort of trouble, are you?”</p><p>“What? Of course not.” He looked out over the water, his cheeks warm. “I just wanted to see you.”</p><p>Linhardt sighed—one of relief, Metodey could tell—and smiled. “Couldn’t wait for me to get back?”</p><p>Was it really so odd for him to be here? Linhardt would tease him if he said anything else, so he crossed his arms and huffed. Once Linhardt had prepared his fishing rod he went to the end of the pier, then looked over his shoulder.</p><p>“Stand over here while I cast.” He inclined his head toward the space next to him. “You might get caught if you’re behind me.”</p><p>Metodey snickered. “I’d make a good catch.”</p><p>“You won’t think it’s funny if I hook your lip or”—Linhardt winced—”your eye.”</p><p>The lip didn’t sound too bad, but an eye? Metodey hurried next to him.</p><p>A gentle breeze fluttered Linhardt’s loose clothing as he drew back, then swung the fishing line in a steady motion; the hook flashed in the light as it sailed over their heads before sinking underwater with a <i>plop</i>. Metodey thought Linhardt would stay at the edge, but instead he leaned the rod against a driftwood tripod and sat down in a folding chair, which left Metodey to scuff his boot against the wood and wonder what came next. Waiting, yes—he knew how fishing worked—but there had to be more to it than sitting around.</p><p>Metodey sat at the pier’s edge, his legs dangling over the water. One of Linhardt’s buckets was close enough for him to lean over and peek inside. “No bites yet, huh?”</p><p>“Nope.”</p><p>He waited for Linhardt to continue the conversation, but the only sounds were seagulls shrieking in the air and waves rolling across the water. </p><p>It was like a job, he told himself. During one of those he had threads of possibility to weave together into a plan, then he could snip and tuck and patch things up here and there while waiting for his target to appear, or the enemy to reveal themselves, or a break in security for him to slip through. In those scenarios, the time he spent waiting around would coil anticipation in him, tighter and tighter until he was ready to burst, and when he finally got to spring into action—few things hit quite like a well-executed plan!</p><p>So what was his current one?</p><p>He’d come out here in search of Linhardt because he wanted to spend time with him. Mission accomplished. Despite the success it was frustration, not satisfaction, that coiled within him, which defeated the point of time with Linhardt in the first place. Linhardt was apparently too busy staring at the water to pay attention to him, as if the ocean could be more interesting than Metodey.</p><p>He peered into the second bucket, where long worms, sluggish and fat, sloshed around. What were they? He plucked one out to see.</p><p>“Put that back,” Linhardt said, leaning out of his chair to grab it.</p><p>Metodey pulled his hand away with a grin on his face. “What kind of worm is this?” He dangled it over his mouth. “Is it edible?”</p><p>Linhardt rubbed his chin. “I’ve never tried.”</p><p>Above him, the worm writhed in his pinched grip. It was an ugly thing, distinctly worm-like yet its sides were covered in...legs? Almost like a centipede...It didn’t look all that appetizing and Linhardt was watching him now, anyway, so he lowered it back into the bucket.</p><p>“Thank you. I can’t imagine it’d taste pleasant, though I suppose the real thing wouldn’t either.” Linhardt turned his attention back to the fishing rod. “That one is magically animated.”</p><p>“So it’s dead?”</p><p>“It was never alive.”</p><p>“Don’t you think live bait would work better? I’ve heard big fish are attracted to blood.”</p><p>“Size has nothing to do with that.”</p><p>Metodey reached for Linhardt’s knife. “We could find out.”</p><p>Linhardt moved it away. “My methods get perfectly fine results. This rod, for example, is enchanted.” Now the knife was out of his range entirely. “Less effort to reel and the line is strengthened so that if I do hook one of those big ones, it won’t snap.”</p><p>For all that Linhardt complained about work, that sounded like an awful lot of work to maintain. He didn’t even like fish all that much, did he? Metodey had only seen him eat it in soup or mixed with something else.</p><p>Metodey stood, ducked under the brim of Linhardt’s hat, and wrapped his arms around the other man’s shoulders. “Magic rod, huh?” He breathed a laugh against Linhardt’s ear. “I know all about your magic rod.”</p><p>Linhardt squirmed out of his grip and pushed him away. “I’m <i>trying<i> to focus.”</i></i></p><p>
  <i>
    <i>What was there to focus on? The waves lapped at the posts supporting the pier, gentle as ever, while the sea sparkled in the dusky light. At some point Linhardt had told him the sunsets were beautiful out here though Metodey had yet to see one. It would only be an awful lot of water and an awful lot of sky, no matter the colors.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Metodey knew he wasn’t supposed to touch the bait or the hooks or the knife—especially not the knife—or any of Linhardt’s other tools, but his palms itched for something to fuss with. One of his own knives was tucked in his boot, though he didn’t have anything in particular to do with it, since it was for emergencies.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Was he bored enough for it to be an emergency?</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>An unlabeled book sat near them. He picked it up without any complaints from Linhardt but decided it would’ve been better to leave it alone after the first page about how it was a treatise on the genealogy of Crests among Adrestian nobles and at least if he’d left it unopened, he could imagine something more interesting inside. Bawdy tales, maybe songs.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Couldn’t you have brought something more interesting?” Metodey placed the book’s corner against the pier and spun it. “There’s not even any pictures.”</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Why settle for pictures when you can enjoy the scenery? It’s a lovely beach—go see for yourself.” Linhardt frowned down at him. “And quit messing with my stuff. You’re worse than the gulls.”</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>It was tempting, for a moment, to fling the book into the ocean, which would be eventful but Linhardt wouldn’t like that at all, so he set it down, lurched to his feet, and left his companion at the pier.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Lovely or not, he was just as bored on the beach. Sand, seaweed, and the occasional shell. Up away from the sand were smooth plants that squished pleasantly between his fingers—ice plants, Linhardt had called them—but that wasn’t fun for very long. He ended up at a cluster of rocks, perched on the largest one with some stones in a shallow dip beside him. A few of the flatter ones seemed like they’d skip across the water, so he gathered those up and tried his hand at skipping them.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>They all sank.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Why? He’d watched his fellow soldiers do it at lakes to waste time while they waited for something or other. Metodey had done it himself a few times. There was a trick to it he must have forgotten, something about the angle of his throw or maybe the stones he’d picked out. Once he ran out of flat ones to try he was out of patience, too, and started hurling whatever he could grab into the sea. There were <i>plonks</i> and <i>splishes</i> when they hit the water that might have been mildly amusing some other time, but right now only reminded him of his failure.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Hey.” Linhardt’s voice drifted up on the salty breeze; Metodey peered over the rock’s edge and found him standing below with his hands on his hips. “You’ll scare the fish away if you keep being so loud.”</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“What fish?” Metodey gestured to the water, swept his arm across it and ended at the pier.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Linhardt’s gaze followed the motion, only for him to gasp and rush off, stumbling over a rock in the process—Metodey hopped down from his perch just in case, but Linhardt recovered and kicked up sand on his way back to the pier. Metodey didn’t get why until he saw the bent fishing rod, though by the time he made it over the rod was about to break free of the tripod it was secured in. Linhardt dove for it right as it slipped out; Metodey grabbed the back of his shirt so he didn’t tumble off the pier.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Whatever was on the other end of that line put up a fight. Metodey adjusted his grip so that he wouldn’t rip Linhardt’s shirt but could help stabilize him while he reeled the fish in; the water churned as the fish was yanked out, which knocked both of them on their asses from the sudden lack of resistance. Even once it was on the pier the fish didn’t give up, slapping its way back toward the water.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Linhardt twisted around for a net but Metodey grabbed the fish before it reached the pier’s edge. Its spiny fins flared up and down as it writhed in his grip, the scales slick enough that he almost dropped it, but it wouldn’t be a big deal if he did because it was still on the hook, which pierced through the bottom of its jaw filled with—with—human teeth?</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Before he could get a good look at it Linhardt snatched away the fish with its black-and-white stripes and blunt teeth and laid it flat on the pier. “Keep it still,” he said, then fetched a ruler along with a notebook as Metodey pressed the fish against the wood.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>While Linhardt measured it and mumbled about some observations, Metodey leaned closer to get a better look at its mouth.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Human teeth! No one had told him there were fish with human teeth. If he’d known there were oddities like this in the water, he’d have taken up a rod to drag them out himself. He wanted to stick his finger in there, to see if they felt like human teeth as well or maybe see how powerful its bite was, but—</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>White light flowed from Linhardt’s hand to the fish, enveloping it in a soft glow that pushed out the hook and closed the wound in its jaw. Then he threw it back into the water.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i> Metodey gawked at the damp spot where the fish had been.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Linhardt merely wiped his hand on his shirt and sat back.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“You could’ve at least let me gut it,” Metodey said, eyeing Linhardt’s knife again.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Ugh, no thanks.”</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Why not? I bet you’d catch something bigger.” Metodey squatted down next to him. “I’m telling you, blood in the water—”</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Yes, yes, I’m sure it’s quite effective.” Having caught his breath, Linhardt stood back up. I’ll pass.”</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Why’d you even bring a knife if you aren’t going to use it?”</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>He looked down at Metodey. “There’s plenty of other uses for a knife. It can cut fishing line and food—not just fish—or help with starting a fire…”</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>There were still more uses that Metodey already knew about because he was pretty sure he’d roughed it in the woods more than Linhardt, whose touch was soft and delicate and free of calluses. Linhardt didn’t even include picking teeth in his list, so what did he know about knives, really? Even so, it was nice enough to watch the curve of his lips as he prattled on. Those scholarly hands of his reached into the bait bucket for one of those magic worms, then stuck it on the hook, which he twirled a few times as the metal baubles attached to it sparkled like coins. The worm squirmed on the hook. Quite the lively motion, despite Linhardt’s earlier claims.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Now do you understand?”</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Metodey blinked, stood up from his squat. “Of course.”</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Linhardt sighed. “Perhaps I should explain it another way.”</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Hadn’t he been talking about knives? There wasn’t anything to explain. Metodey opened his mouth to tell Linhardt this only for the other man to keep going.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Fishing is like a battle. Not much happens until it does, all at once.”</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>While it didn’t sound so bad when he said like that, it wasn’t an accurate comparison. Where was the camaraderie? The thrill of conquering death? The heady mixture of fear and excitement as the world around you spiraled into chaos? He didn’t see any of that when Linhardt cast the line and sat down in his chair again.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>If Metodey stayed here his brain was going to melt and drip out his ears even with Linhardt’s company. Maybe if Linhardt were a bit more chatty, but he seemed too busy focusing on...whatever, so Metodey slipped away from the pier again in search of something to do.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Nevermind about skipping stones—it was a waste of time, though there were so many loose stones and bits of gravel mixed in with the sand that he had plenty to choose from if he felt like trying. He picked one up and closed one eye to see if that’d help him figure out the angle, but as he drew back to throw it a seagull flew by and messed up his aim.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>The stone sank.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Cursing, he rounded on the bird but it was long gone, though a whole flock was plodding around the sand. The culprit had to be in there somewhere. Metodey picked up another stone, tossed it up and down a few times, then hurled it at the birds—they scattered only to land a little further away. He had another go at it and they took off, some of them circling above to shriek at him.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Serves them right. They were rats with wings, always making a mess and trying to steal Linhardt’s belongings. He was helping Linhardt out, really, as he tossed whatever he could find at them.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Linhardt, who seemed to be asleep. He was slumped in his chair when Metodey looked over at the pier, his arms folded over his chest. A seagull was perched on his bait bucket and while Metodey was tempted to go over there and chase it off, that’d probably wake Linhardt up and it was magic bait so he could conjure up some more, or maybe the bird would choke on it and solve the problem for him.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>More gulls circled above; fewer landed even though he still had plenty of sticks and rocks and other debris he could throw. Soon it was only him, the seagulls out of his range, and the waves that crept towards him only to retreat. It left this awful sinking feeling in his stomach that hurt worse than boredom.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>He’d been to beaches before—they didn’t have to be this dull. Surely there was something he could amuse himself with, even if it was dead, so he set off along the water’s edge.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Rocks, there were always more rocks to find, and this latest set included tall ones that jut out like black teeth—the chewing kind with dips in them—wet enough that he almost slipped when he clambered onto them. Cracking his skull wouldn’t be fun, but the knowledge that he might were it not for his acrobatic talents lifted that sinking feeling out of him with a laugh. Inside the dips and between the rocks were pools lined with snails and barnacles and other things for him to prod at—the rough nubs of a starfish, fat blobs with green tendrils that recoiled from his touch, a sea urchin with dark spines that pricked him. It hurt but not in a way he minded, so he poked it again for that strange tingle on his skin.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Sea urchins. Linhardt had told him about poisonous ones at some point or maybe he’d read about them himself. Entirely different from street urchins, but either could kill you if you messed with the wrong one.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Metodey turned his hand over in search of bright red spots or any other interesting reactions. Finding none, he sighed and looked out over the ocean. The sun was lower now; it’d be sunset soon. Linhardt was still asleep at the pier, his rod undisturbed.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Why hadn’t he thought to bring some alcohol? There were cautionary tales, often told at taverns to justify another round, of sailors going mad after too long at sea without any stiff drinks.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>He slipped his knife from his boot, spun it in the air, caught it by the handle on its way down. What good would it do him now? There wasn’t even anything in his teeth to pick out.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>...Starfish could grow from their own severed limbs.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>That was definitely something he’d learned from Linhardt, who had groused about some argument he was having with that Nuvelle lady about spontaneous generation and how he was usually content to let people be wrong without his input but—well, the details of the argument were hazy.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>What stuck in Metodey’s memories was the way Linhardt got so worked up as he searched for a book that strands of hair escaped his bun, until he collapsed into a chair with a huff and freed the rest of his hair to run his fingers through it. Such a rare sight, to see Linhardt so energetic about something that wasn’t Crest-related. Or fishing. He got weirdly excited about that; Metodey still didn’t understand why.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>One distracted toss was all it took for the knife to bounce off a rock and into the water with a small splash. His first impulse was to jump in after it, but the water would seep into his clothes and make it hard to swim and probably ruin his boots, so he muttered under his breath while he shucked off his clothing. Oh, and there were probably more rocks hidden underwater. Jumping in would’ve cracked his skull for sure.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Metodey climbed into the water, shivering once he was up to his chest, and as expected his foot touched an algae-covered rock. The slime made him slip—he slid under with a gasp, then sputtered and spat out saltwater when he came back up. When he next went down it was intentional, though he came back up a moment later to rub the sting from his eyes. After a few more dives his eyes adjusted to the water, but wherever his knife had ended up he couldn’t see it through the murk. <i>Now</i> what was he supposed to do in emergencies? Use his teeth?</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>That wouldn’t be too bad, actually. Not all that practical but it’d feel good. Nothing quite like fighting tooth and nail when you wanted to feel alive. Maybe he <i>should</i> have gambled on that fight with Caspar.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>On his last dive he swam as far down as his lungs would allow. Even if all the dark blurs he found rushed away from him, he’d seen more fish here than he had all day.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Nevermind about the knife. Once he’d surfaced and sucked in some air, he swam further out to see what else he could find.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Or...would something find him? Now there was an exciting thought. Leviathans slumbered under the waves—so he’d heard—beasts that could sink entire ships with a swipe of their limbs. Hell, maybe he’d find one of those sunken ships. Those were always filled with treasure, weren’t they?</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Gold glittered in his thoughts when he caught a sparkle in the light that filtered through the water’s surface. It wasn’t gold, of course, since that would sink, but it could be some other bauble or at least something interesting, though once he was closer to the water’s surface the waves pushed him towards it and pain seared through the skin between his neck and shoulder.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>The pain spread when whatever bit him tugged; his movements were clumsy in the water as he reached for it and his hand hit something thin but solid. Bubbles poured from his mouth when he swore—it was a fishing line.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>His impulse to pull away only dug the hook in deeper. Sure, he wasn’t the bulkiest man in the army, but shouldn’t his weight be enough to snap the line?</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Clearly it wasn’t. At this rate he’d tear out a whole chunk of flesh—if only he could cut the line and—oh. This was an emergency. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Metodey shouted as he crested the water’s surface. The line went slack and Linhardt shouted something too, but it was hard to see as a wave washed over his head and stung his eyes with his own blood. He kicked his feet towards the line until he made it to the shallows, then collapsed on his knees. A cough rattled in his chest even after he’d spat out the last of the water.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Linhardt waded over, his hands glowing with molten light as he grabbed the fishing line and burned through it with a spell. “How did you—why—”</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>He backed away, wincing as Metodey stood up, though he hovered his hands near the hook. A burning ache throbbed in Metodey’s shoulder and up his neck whenever he touched his own skin, until he poked his finger on the hook and that hurt worse than the sea urchin, but it was an informative sort of pain.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Linhardt’s face was paler than usual. Ah, it had to be the blood. Metodey’s fingertips were smeared with it when he looked at his hand.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“It’s fine,” Metodey said. “It’s a tiny hook, I’ll just—”</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>He cut himself off with a hiss as he tried to pull it out. Linhardt turned away, one hand over his mouth. Was it really that bad? When Metodey craned his neck to see, it sent fresh jolts of pain through him.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>The hook’s barb was through his skin which was good, like an arrow—he’d been shot by those and survived. All he had to do was take it by the other end and push, push it through—yes, even the wide O at the other end with the line in it—he grit his teeth and pushed, then pulled through the pressure, a sharp pain like a splinter, with the hook pinched between his trembling fingers until—</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Metodey cracked one eye open when a hand touched the spot. A soothing chill spread from milk-white fingers into his skin; he sighed and rested his forehead with its wet bangs on Linhardt’s shoulder.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Why are you naked?”</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“I dropped my knife.”</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Even though Metodey flashed his best smile, Linhardt still frowned.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Once Linhardt gave him a towel and he dried off more-or-less, he made his way back to the rocks where his clothes were folded. One corner had been tugged out of place and a boot had ended up in a tide pool.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>It had to be those damn birds. Metodey considered finding one of them, but Linhardt was waiting for him back at the pier, so he got dressed, grabbed his wet boot, and returned with sand crunching between his toes.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Linhardt looked down at his bare foot, then up to his face. “Why don't you just stay with me?”</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>As if Metodey had to be told! But it was a rhetorical question, so he nodded and followed Linhardt back to the pier. Not long after he’d flopped into the folding chair to wipe his foot, Linhardt offered him the fishing rod, which had a new worm wriggling on its hook.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Would you like to give it a try?”</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Eh? Sure, I guess.” Metodey stood and took the rod—it wasn’t like he had anything better to do.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Here, I’ll show you how to cast…”</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Linhardt guided him through the motions with a gentle touch. It took a few tries before he got it right enough to satisfy Linhardt, who patted his shoulder, gave him some pointers, then sat down.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“And now I just wait?”</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Linhardt was already reaching for his book. “Yeah.”</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Metodey huffed through his nostrils. “How long?”</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“As long as it takes. Or until you get tired of it, I suppose.” Linhardt licked his finger, then turned a page. “But do pay attention—you never know when you’ll get a bite.”</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>It felt an awful lot like he’d been tricked. Being on the other end of the rod hurt, yes, but it <i>was</i> exciting. The fish probably didn’t appreciate it. Did fish even get bored? What a pointless question. He considered asking Linhardt anyway, but after glancing over and finding him with his nose in his book, Metodey found a better request.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Read to me,” he said.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Didn’t you think it was boring earlier?”</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Not if <i>you</i> read it.”</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Linhardt raised an eyebrow at him. “You’re not going to listen to a word of what I say, are you?”</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Of course I will.”</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“...Right then.” He yawned as he turned another page. “Tracing the descent of the Crest of Indech is more difficult than it initially seems. Though it has appeared in both the von Varley and von Essar families for generations—”</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Fish probably got bored. Bored and hungry, two of the worst things out there.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Metodey was both until the tip of the fishing rod twitched and the bobber on the line dipped under the water’s surface. Well, the thought of a potential meal on the other end only made him hungrier, but this was his chance to do something about it.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Hey, I think I’ve got a bite,” he said.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Already?” Linhardt leaned forward in his chair. “Tilt the rod up.”</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>When he did so the rod bent into a sharper curve. Linhardt had other instructions, and while Metodey was delighted to hear him so excited, he could figure it out from here. This was a fight for survival—Metodey knew all about those. The fish struggled for its life while he spun the reel so he could take it.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Once it was out of the water, Linhardt grabbed his net and had Metodey lower it in while he took care of the line, though after it was free Metodey plucked it out by its tail. It flopped back and forth in his grip as he showed it off.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Huh. Pretty small,” Linhardt said, even as he gave Metodey’s back a congratulatory pat.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Small? Not as large as that striped monster with the weird teeth from earlier, but small? “Still big enough to eat.”</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>No matter what size it was it had put up a real fight. He could respect that. Even now it thrashed, until Linhardt had him set it down while they removed the hook and he healed the fish with another spell. The fish stared back at them with its mouth agape, still twitching every now and then. Once he’d measured it, Linhardt picked it up and— </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Metodey grabbed his wrist. “You’re not going to toss it back, are you?”</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Linhardt slid it into one of their buckets, where it splashed around. “You caught it. It’s yours.” He covered the bucket with a lid. “But whatever you do with it, I don’t want to see.”</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Fair enough. He’d kill it later—quick and discreet, for Linhardt’s sake. Those brief moments he’d handled it had already been exquisite. Its scales were smooth and covered in slime; he was certain it’d feel just as pleasant to split the fish open and stick his fingers in its guts. For now he crouched near the bucket and peeked inside, dismayed to notice that his boot knife would’ve been perfect to stab through its fluttering gills.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Linhardt wiped his hand on his pants, then rubbed his chin. “Not bad for your first catch. Still, I don’t understand how you got a bite so fast…I suppose evening is one of the better times, or perhaps the tide—”</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“It was my blood.”</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Linhardt blinked at him.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“My blood in the water.” Metodey tapped his own shoulder. “Like I said.”</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>A crease appeared in Linhardt’s brow. “We aren’t anywhere near your blood.”</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“It’s still in the waves—”</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Diluted enough that it wouldn’t matter, and anyway that’s absurd. And disgusting.”</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Metodey stood up. “<i>I</i> think it’s a fine hypothesis. Testable.”</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>When he reached for the box with the hooks, Linhardt snapped it shut. He tucked it away with their fishing line and the net and folded up his chair while he spoke. “There’s too many factors for us to say one way or the other. Can’t rule out beginner’s luck.”</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Luck?” Metodey scoffed, waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “That was all skill.”</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>By now he realized that Linhardt was packing up to leave, despite it apparently being a good time to fish. <i>Finally</i>, he should have thought, but it was disappointment that gnawed at his insides.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Aren’t you going to catch more?” Metodey took the bucket with his fish from Linhardt. “You don’t have to do anything with my blood—we’ll get plenty without it.”</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Linhardt smiled at him before he looked out over the water, tucking a strand of loose hair behind his own ear. “Fishing isn’t really about the fish, you know.”</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Then what the hell was all this trouble for?</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Metodey joined him at the pier’s edge, a flutter in his chest when Linhardt’s arm wrapped around his waist. He leaned against Linhardt’s shoulder in return.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Maybe they didn’t see the same things as they watched the sunset. It bathed the sky in a bloody crimson, casting orange embers that sparkled like gold across the water. The salt-tinged air smelled different from sweat and death, there weren’t any pillars of smoke or bodies to block his view, and Linhardt was at his side with a warm glow around his silhouette. Whatever Linhardt saw, Metodey hoped it was just as beautiful.</i>
  </i>
</p>
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